


My Sad Captains

by WolfesPuppies



Category: The Great Library Series - Rachel Caine
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angst, Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, I don't know what to tag this as, Mostly Hurt in this one, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Canon, Torture, mid rome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-23
Updated: 2019-06-14
Packaged: 2020-03-13 06:30:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18935320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WolfesPuppies/pseuds/WolfesPuppies
Summary: “You know, you’re a soldier. You know how to surrender, but your Scholar will break long before he bends."Santi, and the year Wolfe was in prison.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've been working on this one for far too long, and it's at least doubled in length, but if I don't post it now, I never will. Be kind pls!

They spend the night before Santi leaves for Belgium playing chess in their little garden, sharing a bottle of good wine. The chess pieces are sun-warm beneath their fingers, there's a platter of meat and bread and cheese next to them, and Wolfe is wearing the red silk robe they're both so fond of.

"Checkmate." Wolfe moves his piece into position and sits back with a smug grin and a sparkle in his eyes "Remind me, Captain, what were our terms?"

"Whoever wins, gets to do whatever they want to the other...although I fail to see how that's a threat." Santi answers Wolfe's grin with one of his own, slow and sly. Wolfe stands and moves in front of Santi, leaning down to kiss him before pulling back to whisper "Go to the bedroom and wait for me. I'll clean these up."

Santi is a military man, and used to taking orders, but the promise behind this one has shivers running up and down his spine. He leans forward to kiss Wolfe again, but the other pulls back before he can. "Be good, Captain." Wolfe turns in a swirl of silk and leaves Santi to pull himself together before doing as he's told.

Nothing they do together that night is new, but it's tinged with the bittersweet knowledge that Santi will be leaving the next morning for some time. As they lie curled against each other after, sweat cooling on their skin, Wolfe turns on his side and rests his head on Santi's shoulder, linking their fingers together.

"I'll miss you."

"I'll miss you too."

Santi leaves early the next morning, only time for a cup of coffee in the garden with Wolfe before collecting his bag from the bedroom. He lingers for as long as he possibly can on the doorstep, not wanting to leave, but eventually he has no choice, and has to kiss Wolfe one last time and heading to the barracks.

 

* * *

 

**Excerpt from the personal journal of Christopher Wolfe. Examined to determine if it should be removed to the Black Archives.**

_Nic left this morning, to Berlin for at least six weeks. I’ll miss him, as always, but it gives me the chance to work on my new project without feeling guilty for abandoning him in favour of long hours in my office. It’s almost done. My paper is nearly finished, I need one more part for the machine and then…this could change everything. The Library would no longer have to rely on Obscurists, books could be circulated so much more widely. Time to work. Time to change the world_.

* * *

 

 

The months in Belgium had been long and hard but rewarding. The new unit train well and will be a credit to the Library. The barracks are only a short walk away from their little house, and Santi only pauses for a quick debrief and to buy a good bottle of wine, and then he's finding his keys and opening the door. There'd been no message from Wolfe that morning, indeed there hadn't been for a few weeks, but that was nothing new, with his tendency to get lost in his research. A few of the earlier messages had been rushed in a way that suggested Wolfe was getting to the end of an exciting new project, and Santi had savoured them fondly. He takes a step inside the house before stopping. The air is stale, in the way it gets when a place has been shut up undisturbed for too long, and it sends shivers down Santi's spine. It doesn't feel right, and he lets his bag slip to the floor as he slips his gun from the holster.

"Chris?" he wanders through the rooms but doesn't find his love. "Christopher?" Still nothing, and he starts to notice other little things - the rug is off-centre and curled up on one corner in a way that would drive Wolfe up the wall, and the pile of Blanks on the table have a thin layer of dust on the top. "Christopher?" he tries one last time and makes a split-second decision. Santi leaves his bag where it is, takes a second to lock the door, and heads straight to Wolfe's office. When he gets there, it's as silent as the house, the papers and Blanks just as undisturbed and dusty, and the pit in his stomach grows ever deeper. There's no logical reason behind his panic, but Santi can tell there's something not right about the situation. Leaving Wolfe's office, he hails the first person he sees, a young Scholar he recognises as having worked with Wolfe before.

"Have you seen Christopher - Scholar Wolfe?"

The young man shakes his head, looking mildly terrified, and Santi backs off a little. "Sorry. Do you know where he might be?"

The Scholar shakes his head again. "I was told he was on an assignment."

Santi frowns. Wolfe hadn't mentioned anything about an assignment, even in passing. "When was this?"

The Scholar shrugs. "Maybe a month ago? Sorry Captain, I have things to do." He doesn't wait for a reply before walking away, leaving Santi stood in the middle of the hallway with no clue on what to do next.

* * *

 

**Ephemera:**

**Text of a report by Thomas Qualls, Master of Cells, to the Artifex Magnus. Not submitted to the Codex, and marked as private correspondence.**

_I’ve enclosed transcriptions of my latest sessions with Scholar Christopher Wolfe. He continues to insist he worked on this project mostly alone with little outside assistance, especially from Captain Niccolo Santi. He is very clear on this last point, even when his other statements change. As you can see, he has revealed the names of one person he did work with. I expect they will join the Scholar shortly._

_On the subject of the Captain, I understand he has recently returned to Alexandria. Should I tell Wolfe this, or keep him in the dark? Whilst Wolfe insists he had no involvement in the press, threats against him may be useful in gaining more information._

**Message from the Artifex Magnus, in response to Thomas Qualls. Marked as private correspondence.**

_Excellent work. The associate in question will be arriving in the cells within the week._

_Yes, tell the Scholar that Santi has returned. Let him know I will be keeping a close eye on the Captain._

* * *

 

 

 

A week later, and Santi has gone from irritation to worry, to anger and now full-blown terror. He still hasn't heard a thing from Wolfe, or about him, or something that could even be vaguely construed to be related to him. Santi starts asking questions. First, he is told Wolfe is on assignment as the young Scholar had told him, but he doesn’t believe that for a second. The second excuse, that he's on a mission for the Artifex, is slightly more believable, but still stinks of a lie. So he keeps asking.

A month later, and now the fear is a constant companion, lodged deep in his chest, a steel ball he feels when he so much as breathes. He starts sending messages to friends, and they all come back the same.

_No, we thought he was away._

**_I thought he was lost in his research again_ **

_Nic, it's been too long! Haven't heard from your Scholar, sorry._

And then, finally, something. A message from another Scholar, one Wolfe had worked with some months ago, the intricacies of ink or something, he hadn't really explained it very well.

_Hi Niccolo. Haven't heard from Chris in a while, but I was going to message him anyway. I was looking for an article he wrote the other year, but it seems to have disappeared. I wanted to know if he'd withdrawn it. Could you find out?_

Santi frowns and immediately grabs his Codex, searching for Christopher Wolfe. Nothing. Not one article. He tries articles by name, by topic, by keyword, but nothing comes up. And then his Codex chimes with a message that sends ice cold panic through Santi's heart.

_Stop searching for Christopher Wolfe._

* * *

 

**Ephemera:**

**Codex message from the Archivist Magnus to the Artifex Magnus:**

_Captain Santi continues to ask questions about Wolfe. It’s a shame they got involved, Santi is a capable soldier. His fine work in Berlin put him in line for a promotion, but his tenacity has made that untenable. All the reports from Qualls suggest that Wolfe refuses to admit any involvement on the Captain’s part. Whether that’s true or not remains to be seen. Have Qualls spend some time with Santi, persuade him to stop asking after Wolfe. I wouldn’t want to see him dead, he’s far too useful for that, but if he keeps asking, well. There’s other soldiers._

* * *

 

Santi doesn't sleep that night. He spends it pacing the house instead, mind whirling with more questions than answers, and the steel ball of fear now a cage around his heart. Zara takes one look at him when he arrives at the training grounds the next morning and stops him in his path.

"No. You're going home."

"Are you giving me orders, Lieutenant?" Santi's tone is cold, but Zara knows that isn't his most dangerous mode and so forges on.

"Yes, Captain. You're going home." her tone doesn't allow space for any argument. but Santi still tries.

"Zara, I need to do-something. Anything." His tone must give something away because her face softens a little, and she drags him into a corner.

"This is about Wolfe, isn't it?"

Santi nods jerkily and takes his Codex out to show her the message. "He's alive, Zara, he has to be."

"Go ho-"

"Captain Santi. Lieutenant Cole."

"Sir." The two snap to attention as their commanding officer interrupts.

"Cole, you have places to be. Santi, a word."

Santi follows him to his office and takes a seat when told to.

"Captain, I know you've been going through...some difficulties the last few months." he starts.

"Sir, it hasn't affected my work-"

"I know. But orders have come from above. A month leave.”

"But sir-!"

"No arguments, Captain. For the record, I think you'll be better off here, but that's not how this works. One month.”

Santi nods and turns on his heel to leave, and must somehow get home, because the next thing he knows, he is stood in the middle of the living room, bag hanging off one shoulder. The silence is suddenly deafening, and he turns and leaves the house again. He walks for hours, not really paying attention where, and so when he lifts his head and realises it's dark, Niccolo Santi is entirely lost. His head is almost clear for the first time in what seems like forever, but he is still distracted, and so he doesn't notice the figures detach themselves from the shadows behind him. He does see the one in front, but by then it's too late. A blow to Santi's head has him crashing to the floor, insensible of his surroundings.

He wakes with no idea where he is. The floor is cold, the walls are stone, and the door isn't so much a door as bars. It's this that has Santi sitting up, a little too quickly and he has to steady himself for a second before he is able to stand. He's in a cell. It's dark, with no windows, and there's the distinctive whir of an automaton pacing down the hallway.

"Hello?" he shouts and gets no answer. "Hello?!" Still nothing, and so he starts to investigate the cell instead. There's a bucket in the corner, its purpose obvious, and a small cot to one side, with a thin blanket and nothing else. This investigation takes less than five minutes, and so he tries shouting again

"Hello? Is anyone there?"

"Be quiet!" a guard comes hurrying down the hallway, wearing the uniform of the High Garda Elite. It's not someone Santi knows, and he doesn't know if he's relieved or disappointed. It's then he realises he's not wearing his uniform anymore, or at least anything that could mark him out as a member of the Garda.

"Where am I? What's happening?" he asks of the guard and gets nothing in return. The guard just turns and walks back down the hallway, passing the automaton as he does.

Santi doesn't know how long he's in the cell with no answers, but food has been delivered five times. He's used to living off of Garda rations on missions, so hunger is no way to discern how long there is between meals, and with no windows, he is thoroughly disorientated. Even the growth of his beard gives him little to go on. He's been essentially clean-shaven for over twenty years, and his beard grows quickly anyway, so he has nothing to base the current growth on. The other cells around him are empty too, and so for days he sits in silence, the only interaction with the guards who don't speak as they deliver his food. Santi is not a man used to inactivity, but there's only so many press-ups and sit-ups a person can do before they become mind-numbingly dull. The enforced silence and stillness means his mind drifts more than usual, and as ever, it drifts to Wolfe. Even the thought of his love has Santi smiling a little, even though at this point it's been months since he's seen Wolfe, or even heard from him. They've been apart for longer, though not by much, and then there was always Codex messages to get by. The only thing Santi is certain of is that his sojourn in these cells, the apparent erasing of Wolfe's work and the disappearance of the man himself are all very much connected. He just can't work out _how._

It's during one of Santi's musing sessions that he gets disturbed for the first time. A tall handsome man stands at the door to his cell, a Garda behind him. Santi rolls off the cot and goes over to the door, crossing his arms and trying to appear unconcerned.

"Nothing to say?" the man on the other side of the bars says after a few seconds, when it becomes clear Santi won't be the first to break the silence.

Santi just raises an eyebrow. The man is curiously dead behind the eyes and gives nothing away in his expression.

"Well that's alright. We don't need you to speak, only to listen." he steps back and gestures to the guard, who steps forward and reveals the cuffs he's holding. Santi doesn’t know what to expect, but he resolves not to make it harder than it needs to be.

“Those aren’t necessary. I won’t fight.”

“All the same.”

Santi nods and offers his wrists through the bars, hiding his wince as they tighten more than necessary. He takes a step back as the cell door opens, and follows the man down the hallway, the guard behind him.

The room he’s taken to is empty except for a wooden table, with straps at either end and dark red stains spread across its surface. The sight of it has Santi stopping in his tracks, bracing himself against the guard who tries to push him into the room. The other man, the one with the dead eyes, turns and clicks his tongue at what he sees. “Come now Captain, I thought you said you wouldn’t fight.”

The guard behind him pushes hard, and Santi takes advantage of the forced momentum to spin around, putting his back to the wall and considering his possibilities. The guard is young but well-armed, and Santi is restrained and hasn’t eaten properly in some days. Even so, he thinks he stands a chance, and so when the guard moves forward, Santi moves as well, avoiding the guard’s attempt to grab his arm and managing to pull the dagger from his belt. The other man leans against the wall and watches with a small smile curling the side of his lips. The guard tries to circle, to force Santi to leave the safety of the wall at his back, but he knows the minute he does, it’s over. Santi adjusts his position slightly, moving his weight to his back foot to prepare to rush the guard, and misses the slight movement of the other man against the wall. Santi moves, the guard dodges, and the tall man has Santi pressed against the opposite wall in less than a second, a move so quick and smooth that Santi has to appreciate it, even through the pain of the man’s hand pulling his head back his hair.

“You’d do better to behave, Captain. Your Scholar might appreciate it.”

Santi freezes. A mistake, as it gives the other man the chance to use the grip on his hair and his shoulder to throw Santi onto the table, back colliding painfully with the wood, leaving him dazed. The guard and the tall man have him strapped down in a matter of seconds, his shirt cut down the middle.

“What did you mean, my Scholar might appreciate it? Where’s Christopher?” is the first thing Santi says when he’s recovered his senses.

“Oh, no need to worry about him for now.” The tall man says almost cheerily as he pulls up a stool and starts to unroll a leather pouch, filled with things that Santi can’t quite see from his position, but clink threateningly against each other.

“Where’s Christopher?” Santi asks again, and can’t hide his gasp of pain as the tall man swipes what’s in his hand over his chest, blood welling up beneath it. It turns out to be a scalpel, sharp and silver in the dark light of the cell.

Santi is no stranger to pain – he’s a soldier, has been for twenty years, he’s been shot and stabbed and had perhaps one too many concussions over the years, but these shallow cuts hurt perhaps more than all of that put together. The tall man asks seemingly innocuous questions, and whilst Santi tries not to answer, that gets punished with another cut, as does any mention of Wolfe. It doesn’t take Santi long to realise what the point of this is.

“You want me to stop looking for him.”

“I knew you were a clever man.”

“I won’t.”

The tall man sighs deeply and sets his tools aside. “I was hoping we could get this over and done with in one day.” He gestures to the guard, who’d been leaning against the wall and looking paler by the second the whole time, who comes and releases Santi’s restraints. “Take him back to his cell.”

The process repeats for three more days. Santi is taken to the other cell, forced onto the table, and the tall man asks question after question, reopening cuts whenever Santi refuses to answer or mentions Wolfe by name. Every session ends the same way, with the tall man asking if he’ll stop looking for Wolfe, and Santi refusing.

The fourth night sees Santi curled on what passes for a cot in his cell, trying to protect the cuts on his chest from splitting open as he moves. He doesn’t sleep that night, and they follow the same routine the next morning, but instead of starting with the knives immediately, the tall man leans his elbows on the table next to Santi and sighs deeply.

“You know, you’re a soldier. You know how to surrender, but your Scholar will break long before he bends. Surrender now, and it’ll be easier for him. Continue refusing, and every cut I have given to you will be given to him, twice over.”

Santi closes his eyes at the very thought of Wolfe going through this because of him, and is silent for so long that the tall man sighs and sits up, ready to start all over again, when Santi speaks.

“Okay.”

* * *

 

**Ephemera:**

**Excerpt from the personal journal of Niccolo Santi. Not yet available in the Codex.**  
_I don’t know what to do. Christopher is still missing, but now I know he’s alive. I don’t think that was the intention behind my abduction, but now I know. I want to keep looking, keep searching for him until I bring him home, but the consequences of that were made very clear._

_The house is too quiet without him. Too empty. I miss waking up to a cup of coffee and Christopher lying in bed next to me as he reads, or the nights curled on the sofa as I do paperwork as he sleeps. I even miss his attempts at gardening, although I’m sure the yard doesn’t. The bottle of wine I bought when I got back from Berlin is still in the cupboard. I hope to share it with him one day soon._

_I gave up, and I’ll never forgive myself for that. Now I just hope he comes home, and I can help him when he does. I’m sorry, Christopher._


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wolfe's return, and the year that follows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's no actual violence in this chapter, but there is menttions of it, and panic attacks as a result of it. Wolfe's (and Santi's) trauma is very real.

The rain beats heavy against the windows, and at first Santi thinks that's what woke him. His nerves have been on a hair trigger for months now, and it's not the first time something entirely innocuous has woken him up. Even so, he grabs his gun from the bedside table and goes to investigate. He reaches the living room, and then he hears it. A movement at the door, not a knock but there's clearly someone or something out there. Santi stands to the side of the door, takes a breath to steady himself, readies his gun, and swings it open. There, leaning against the frame, gaunt and pale and clearly hurting, is Christopher Wolfe.

It takes a second for Santi to understand what he's seeing, and a second more to process it, and by then Wolfe is losing what little balance he has and crashing forward into the house. It's all Santi can do to control their fall, and they end up on their knees in the hallway, door still open and rain soaking the floors.

"Christopher...Dio, amore mio."

Santi takes Wolfe's head in his hands and leans their foreheads together for a second before pulling back to look Wolfe in the eyes. There's nothing there, no recognition of where he is or who he's with, just a horrible blankness Santi has only seen a few times before, on soldiers who had seen terrible things on the battlefield. It takes a few seconds for Santi to realise the other man is shaking, from the cold or the rain or something else, and it gives him something to do, something to focus on. Something he knows how to do. Santi finally realises the door is still open and closes it quickly, shutting out the rain and the rest of the world.

"Chris, can you stand?" There's no response from Wolfe, no awareness that he's even heard Santi, and so he considers his options for a second. "Chris, I'm going to pick you up, okay?" Santi waits a second, but there's still no response. They can't stay on the now damp floorboards all night however, and so Santi moves around to put one arm beneath Wolfe's knees and one around his back. Lifting him takes far less effort than Santi is expecting, and elicits a tiny whimper from Wolfe, a small sound that feels like a dagger through Santi’s heart. The short walk to the bathroom is the longest of Santi's life. When they finally reach it, Santi places Wolfe on the closed toilet and, steeling himself, starts to peel away the wet and dirty rags Wolfe is wearing as clothes. Scars, half-healed cuts, bruises that speak of broken ribs, long thin lines that wrap over his shoulder from his back.

"Broken bones heal twice as strong." Santi looks up at Wolfe, not knowing how much the other man is taking in, but saying it anyway. Wolfe's eyes are still blank, but there's a desperation hidden in the depths that shreds what remains of Santi's heart. It becomes almost a litany, a prayer, repeated over and over as Santi moves Wolfe to the bath. Santi isn't sure who he means it more for, Wolfe or himself.

Broken bones heal twice as strong.

Dries him, finds new clothes, ignores the way they hang off his love's gaunt frame.

Broken bones heal twice as strong.

Carries him to the bedroom, settles him on the bed, finds enough blankets to supply an army.

Broken bones heal twice as strong

 

The next morning comes with sun, the kind of bright sun that only comes after heavy rainfall, when the air is scented with petrichor and everything seems a little weighed down. Santi hadn’t slept all night, unwilling to take his eyes off Wolfe for even a second. Wolfe had slept, curled under the blankets in the smallest ball he could force his body into. He uncurls himself now, his face coming into view beneath the blankets, the expression on his face like he doesn’t quite believe what he’s seeing.

“Hey.” Santi says gently, and his heart leaps when Wolfe meets his eyes for the first time.

Wolfe works his throat a few times, licks his lips to combat the dryness before talking, his voice quiet and hoarse and Santi’s mind helpfully supplies all the reasons for that.

“Nic? Is this real?”

Santi has to close his eyes and swallow before he can answer. “Yes, Christopher. This is real. You are home, with me, in our bed. This is real.”

Wolfe doesn’t do anything for a second, and his expression of trying to work something out is so familiar to Santi that it, more than anything, makes tears prick at the corners of his eyes. He can tell the moment it clicks, and _that_ moment is familiar too, except now it’s followed by Wolfe’s shoulders hunching and suddenly he’s crying, gut wrenching sobs that must pull at every broken bone and half-healed wound. Santi moves to hold Wolfe close as he cries for what seems like hours, but must only be a few minutes, until eventually Wolfe pushes weakly on Santi’s chest.

“Are you with me?”

Wolfe nods once but doesn’t speak again.

“You will heal, and I will be here, every step of the way. I'll be with you. When you think you can't endure, I will help. Believe in me, if you can't believe in yourself.”

 

* * *

 

It's early evening when the knock on the door comes, about a week after Wolfe's return. Santi's heart starts going a mile a minute, and Wolfe freezes still beside him.

"I'll go and see. Don't worry." Santi tries and fails to seem unconcerned as he gets up from the bed, picking up his gun as he does. "It'll be okay."

Going to the door and pausing for a second before opening it feels horribly familiar, but his heart settles when he sees who it is on the other side.

"Zara." Santi says, loud enough for Wolfe to hear from the bedroom. He is suddenly, acutely, aware of what a mess he must look. His hair is stuck up in all directions, he's in dire need of a shave, and hasn't slept more than a couple of hours at a time since Wolfe was returned. He opens his mouth to speak, but Zara gets there first.

"He's back."

"He's back."

Zara nods. "When are you coming back?"

The question sends a pang of guilt through Santi. He'd sent a vague message to Zara, something about coming down with a cold or some such nonsense, and he's not surprised she saw through it. He's aware he left his squad in the lurch, but Wolfe is more important, always.

"I-When I can. I'll be back, but he needs me now."

Zara hums quietly. "Look after yourself sir. Get some sleep." she says, and then leaves. Santi sighs and closes the door, leaning his forehead against it for a second before back into the bedroom to find Wolfe sat up on the side of the bed, head bowed. It's the most movement he's done without help since his return, and Santi can see the toll even that has taken on him.

"You should go with her." It's the first time he's spoken since that first day, and Wolfe's voice is still quiet and hoarse, and it takes a second for Santi to realise what he's said.

"What?"

Wolfe nods towards the door, unable to speak once more.

 “Why would I do that?” Santi is thoroughly confused. Wolfe, clearly frustrated, opens his mouth to speak, and when the words won’t come, gestures to himself angrily, and it’s that more than anything that makes it click for Santi. His friendship with Zara is an old argument, borne out of Wolfe’s insecurities and the days and hours Santi and Zara have spent working together in close quarters and hard conditions. To have it brought up now, when Santi has spent a week attending to Wolfe’s every need, is like setting a match to paper.

“For the love of God Chris! There was never anything between Zara and me, and there never will be. I love you, and only you. Do you think I’d be here if that-“ Santi’s thoughts are entirely derailed when Wolfe flinches violently, pressing back into the headboard. Cowering.

The shame is as cold as the anger was hot, and comes on just as quickly, curling like ice in Santi’s chest. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath before opening them again. Wolfe is still pressed against the headboard – not quite as tightly now, but still wide-eyed and fearful – and it’s aimed at Santi.

“I’ll sleep in the living room tonight.” Santi says quietly. Wolfe nods, a tiny, almost imperceptible movement.

“Can I get a blanket?” Another tiny nod, and Santi is careful to reach for the one closest to himself, and furthest from Wolfe.

“Do you need anything?” This time Wolfe shakes his head, and Santi nods, retreating from the room. He pauses for a second at the door before going to settle on the sofa. He doesn’t think he’ll sleep, emotions still high, but he’s out as soon as his head hits the pillow, and is only woken up by the warm Alexandrian sun coming through the windows.

It takes a second for Santi to remember what happened the night before, and then the shame is so thick it almost chokes him. His head is clearer now though, and what he’d thought was justified anger now seems childish, something brought about by a lack of sleep. Santi sighs deeply and stands, going to the kitchen to get some water and fruit as a peace offering.

Wolfe is curled up under the pile of blankets, facing the door. Santi can’t tell if he’s slept or not, or if the dark circles are just another remnant of the hell Wolfe has been though. He’s awake now though, staring at the door.

“I’m sorry.”

Wolfe struggles to sit up, wrapping an arm around his still bruised torso, and Santi is torn between helping him and keeping his distance, unwilling to touch Wolfe without his consent. Wolfe finally makes it upright, still silent despite his obvious pain.

“Chris, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean- “Santi pauses before he tells a lie. “I was angry, and tired, and I shouldn’t have taken it out on you.”

Wolfe nods once and is silent for so long that Santi almost apologises once more.

“Love you.”

Every bit of tension bleeds from Santi’s shoulders. He takes a few quick steps and places the plate and glass on the table before going to his knees next to the bed.

“I love you too, Chris, so much. I’m sorry I yelled; I didn’t mean to scare you.” Santi lays his forehead on the bed, and it’s only a second before he feels a hand in his hair, stroking it once before lying still. The two stay like that for a few seconds before Santi pulls away and sits back on his heels. “Thank you.”

 

* * *

 

"You want to know what they did to me?" Wolfe whirls to look at Santi.

"The beatings and the cuts and the burns and the whipping?" Each word is spit through gritted teeth, and each one is a dagger in Santi's heart.

"The _torture_? Or when he was kind, would you rather hear about that? When he gave me clean clothes and good food and then asked me about you, about what I made, why I did it?"

His breathing is harsher now, chest heaving like he's been running, eyes wide and wild. "How about the fact I can't remember half of what he did to me because I don't _want_ to remember, I don't-I-I can't- can't-"

Every breath is a struggle for him now, and Santi is starting to move when Wolfe's knees give way and he ends up on the floor, fingers scrabbling for something to hold on the cold tiles as he tries to breathe. Santi is by his side in less than a second, hands on Wolfe's shoulders. Wolfe goes stock still, head down and shoulders up, like he's expecting a blow. Santi doesn't understand why for a second, and then he realises the position they're in - both on their knees, Wolfe curled up and Santi hovering - towering - over him, putting pressure on his shoulders, almost pushing him down. Santi pulls his hands back like he's been burnt and pushes himself back a few inches, bile rising at the thought of hurting Wolfe.

"Chris you need to breathe, can you do that? In and out, just once." What Wolfe manages barely qualifies as a breath, but it's enough for Santi.

"Good, that's good, one more." Santi keeps up the quiet encouragement for what seems like forever, but is actually only a couple of minutes, until Wolfe raises his head and pushes himself up so he's resting on his knees. His eyes are red and wet and he presses his hands hard against his thighs to stop them shaking.

"I'm f-"

"Don't you dare. Don't say you're fine." Santi cuts him off harshly, and only regrets it a little when Wolfe flinches back. "You're not, and that's okay."

"A broken bone heals twice as strong?" Wolfe says it with a wry smile that shows he doesn't really believe it, but he's willing to indulge Santi.

"A broken bone heals twice as strong. And Chris... I don't need to know anything, I should never have asked that. But I need to know what I can't do."

"Even when I don't want you to touch me because I can't tell the difference between you and - him?" Wolfe's voice is direct, a challenge, but he doesn't look at Santi as he says this.

"Especially then. You can talk to me, Chris. Let me help you."

A few nights later, they’re on the sofa together. Santi is reading, occasionally reading a passage out loud, and Wolfe is lying with his head in Santi’s lap, playing with a small wooden puzzle. He knows the solution, it’s a fairly simple solve, but the dexterity required is just enough of a challenge for his still healing hands to make it worth-while. He’d tried with a metal one first, but the gentle clinking of metal against metal had been uncomfortably familiar.

“Qualls.”

“Hmm?” Santi is distracted by his book, and doesn’t really listen to what Wolfe says at first.

“That was his name. Qualls. My-“ Here Wolfe pauses for a second. “My torturer.”

At this Santi carefully marks his page and places the book down on the arm of the sofa and shifts his position slightly. “The torturer. Not yours. He has no ownership over you, no control anymore.”

Wolfe tilts his head back and stares at Santi for a second before nodding. “The torturer.” He talks for almost half an hour, never saying anything in detail, but Santi is a soldier, and he’s seen the effects of what this man Qualls did to his love, and even the vague information Wolfe gives is enough for Santi’s mind to provide more explicit details. And then Wolfe describes him.

“He’s tall, and thin. His eyes…they’re dead. They have no expression, ever. Not even when he was burning me or cutting me. It was just a job for him.”

Santi makes the executive decision in that moment to never tell Wolfe that his description of Qualls is horrifyingly familiar.

“I’ll kill him.” Santi’s voice is completely calm. “I’ll rip him apart for what he did to you. He’ll never hurt you again, amore mio, I promise you that.” It feels good to aim his anger at someone, even better to aim it at someone he knows, however unwillingly, instead of them being shadowy figures in his head. It gives Santi a goal, something to work towards, and he’s always worked better with a goal.

“Thank you for telling me Chris.”

* * *

 

The first time Santi comes home from the barracks and Wolfe isn't there, fear slams into his chest like a bullet.

"Chris?" Santi shouts as he checks the hall, the bedroom, the yard, the kitchen, the study, and finally his Codex for any messages, finding nothing. "Christopher?!" he shouts again, as he checks all the rooms again, and again, and again and again until he's stuck in a loop of hallbedroomyardkitchenstudyCodexChristopher and he knows in his head and his heart he's being entirely irrational but every breath feels like a fight and he doesn't know how much time passes except by the time the front door opens, it's nearly dark outside.

"Nic?"

The sound of Wolfe's voice is enough to break Santi's spiral, and he realises he's no longer moving, but sat on the sofa, the side of one nail bleeding where he's picked the skin away in his fear and worry.

"Chris?" Santi winces at the sound of his own voice - it's watery, like he's been crying, and he realises that is in fact the case.

"Oh Niccolo, my love." Wolfe crosses the living room to kneel in front of Santi, taking his hands to stop Santi picking at the skin.

"You weren't here."

"Why didn't you write me a message?"

"I...-" Santi sighs. "I didn't think. I'm sorry." He runs a hand through his hair. "And now I've worried you, I'm sorry-"

"Nic." Wolfe interrupts him. "You've spent the past few months worrying about me. Let me worry about you."

Santi sniffs and nods, lets Wolfe pull him to his feet and lead him into the kitchen, clean and tape his finger, and then, when they're curled up in bed together, he finally finds the words to his fear.

"When I got home from Belgium, and you weren't here, I thought you'd got lost in your research, so I went to your office, but you weren't there either. I was told you were on an assignment, and then on a mission for the Artifex-" Santi doesn't miss the way Wolfe's shoulders tense at the mention of the Artifex, but he knows if he stops now, he won't start again. "I kept asking, and asking, and asking, and eventually I was told to stop, but I couldn't. By that point, I knew _something_ had to have happened to you, and nothing good." Here Santi pauses, not sure of how to continue. Wolfe makes the decision for him.

"Is this where you tell me the truth of those scars on your chest?"

"What?" True, Santi had told Wolfe some tale about a training accident gone wrong, but that had been in the first few weeks of his return, when Santi wasn't sure of how much Wolfe actually took in.

"I'm not an idiot Nic. You didn't have them before, and they-" Wolfe takes a breath. "They look too similar to some of mine."

Santi is silent for a beat too long, before he sighs. "Yeah. I was given a month of leave, out of the blue. I spent two weeks in a cell, being...ordered to stop searching for you. And I did." The guilt is a tidal wave that comes bubbling out of Santi's throat in a gasp that borders on a sob. "I stopped looking, I gave up, Christopher, I'm _so_ sorry, I should have kept go-“

“Nic. Stop.” Santi stops talking, surprised by Wolfe’s harsh tone. “If you hadn’t stopped, you might not have been here for me to come back to, and then, well. I wouldn’t be here either. By stopping you saved me, Nic.”

“But-“

“No. You saved me. You have given me everything these past few months, let me give you this. You saved me, carissimo.”

Santi has to laugh at Wolfe’s deliberate mispronunciation of the word – he’s perfectly fluent in Italian, but likes to say words wrong on occasion because he knows Santi can’t help but correct him. There’s still a ball in Santi’s chest, but now it’s lighter, and he feels more able to breathe around it, and his words come easier now. “I didn’t send you a message because I didn’t know what I’d do if you didn’t respond.” Santi pauses, but only for a moment. “God, Chris, I’m sorry. I haven’t even asked where you were.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Chris.”

“The postulants arrive in a month. My postulants.” Wolfe’s tone is bitter. “I needed some new clothes. None of mine fit any more.” He’s got better with talking about the effects of his imprisonment, on his body at least, but the bitterness in his tone is even stronger now. There are still nights when Wolfe won’t let Santi see him, but they come further apart now.

“New rule.”

“Hmm?” Santi hums, the fear and panic finally catching up and rendering him half-asleep.

“We send each other a message whenever we leave somewhere. Even just a quick note.”

The suggestion tastes too much like pity for Santi’s liking, and his first instinct is to pretend like it was nothing. “No, it was nothing. It won’t happen again.”

“Nic. How many changes have we made for me? Let me make one for you.”

“Chris, I don’t need-“

“But I want it. Teaching is going to be awful, and I’d prefer it if I knew where to find you if I need you.”

Santi knows Wolfe is only saying this to get him to agree to it, but Wolfe has always been good at pulling Santi’s strings.

“Fine.” He’s aware he’s pouting a little, but Wolfe’s smile is enough to make it seem worth it.

* * *

 

The night before the postulants arrive in Alexandria, Santi and Wolfe play chess in the garden again. It’s not the first time since Wolfe’s return they’ve done so, but it feels like the night before Santi left for Belgium. They didn’t know then what the next two years would bring, and tonight they know the postulant class will change things, even more than they already have, and yet the night feels similar.

There are differences, of course. Wolfe wears the same red silk robe, but there’s a loose shirt underneath it, and whilst he leans back in his seat, it’s not quite as casual a pose as it has been. Santi is a little more paranoid, his nerves a little more on edge. There’s no bet on the chess game tonight, they’re playing simply to play, for the sheer pleasure of being alive and together in the warm sun. The bottle of wine Santi bought on his return has been dragged down from the shelf and dusted off, and whilst it’s a little more vinegary than either of them like, they drink it all the same. Wolfe downs his glass quicker than Santi and pours himself some more before holding the glass out for a toast. Neither of them say anything, for there’s nothing they need to say. They hold each other’s gaze instead, heated and full of promise and hope for what is to come.


End file.
